


echoes of you (haunt me)

by blifuys



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Character Study, Claude has Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Joint Blue Lions and Golden Deer Route, M/M, Post-Canon, content warning: claude faces his demons after the war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23313445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blifuys/pseuds/blifuys
Summary: when you have nothing left to fight but yourself, what happens?or: claude's anxiety reaches its climax, long after the war is done.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 7
Kudos: 178





	echoes of you (haunt me)

**Author's Note:**

> i understand that the world is in a pretty bad place now, but i hope this fic will bring some form of comfort. 
> 
> i personally hc claude to have pretty high-functioning GAD and social anxiety (haha guess who's projecting) and i just wanted to explore its effects after the war, where there's no use for that constant guarding he keeps up all the time. i personally just came out of a pretty bad hit myself haha
> 
> i've been wanting to branch out and explore heavier themes. so this fic WILL come as ventish. 
> 
> that being said. please take care of yourself. know that you are not alone, and to you who's reading this, i love you immensely. we can do it together. 
> 
> this fic took slight inspiration from [echoes of you by marianas trench.](https://open.spotify.com/track/4XBrV9jr6wWNMp0scobPhZ?si=-YJY7Wu1SYCbD1R7mkVDhA)
> 
> cw: anxiety, talks of violence, claude having a bad time with anxiety.

This time he feels it when he's sitting in his bedroom, alone. 

It starts very slowly, subtly. It starts with a sudden tenseness in his spine that snakes upwards, a heavy feeling wrapping around his heart and squeezing like a fist. It burns under his skin like the start of a fire, something he’s quite used to feeling— and yet, something feels…  _ off _ . 

Claude is no stranger to these heightened senses. The thumping heart in his chest has never failed to warn him of the assassins that lurk in the night, the way his hands tremble ever so slightly when he’s around suspicious individuals has always accurately pointed out threats and traitors—of those that would dare bring harm to him. It’s the way his body’s learned to adapt over the years, after countless close encounters with the angel of death. 

But it’s different this time. 

Claude reaches down to the dagger seated in its sleeve, hanging off his belt. Even after the war’s end, he’s never shed the habit of carrying a weapon around. It keeps him feeling safe—armed  _ just in case _ the need ever arose. He’s thankful for his past decisions now, because there is clearly someone in the room. 

The signs are obvious, the way the curtain shuffles very gently in and out. This may be one of the most careless assailants yet—everyone else has taken a less obvious route by stowing their bodies away in cracks between furniture, squeezed into wardrobes and dresses of court ladies that blend in like a painting. His heartbeat grows faster yet, readying the body to strike when ready, to  _ run _ the moment he gets the chance to. Sure, his uncles and brothers would look down on his cowardly tactics, but a winner—in his opinion—is never a dead one. 

His grip trembles. There’s a sense of dread that begins to grip around his throat, as if the poisonous vines in his chest grew upwards and stuffed his gullet. The stone in his throne pulses and grows uncomfortably, like he could start choking at any given moment. Claude, while armed, is nowhere as efficient as he is in normal circumstances. Plans begin to form in his mind. What if the attacker lunges for his throat? His side? He’s nowhere near prepared as he’d like to be, nowhere ready to take on an attempt on his life straight on. 

And so he decides to strike first—the next best defense is always offense. 

He tiptoes towards the curtains, trying to keep his breath steady and quiet as he moves. He stares at the fabric shuffling slightly, and if he tries hard enough, he  _ swears _ he makes out the outline of a body. Who are they? What do they want? Were they coming back for vengeance? Imperialists that seek revenge for the man who has his hands stained and dipped into the crimson blood of their emperor? There are a thousand and one thoughts that rush through Claude’s mind as he readies his dagger above his head, but there is no time to ponder. There is only time to act. 

Without hesitation, Claude uses his other hand to grab the heavy silk, before ripping it open. From what he’s observed, the figure is taller than him, perhaps bigger. He’s no stranger to larger opponents, but surely—he’s been rusty since the war’s end, a good eleven moons without any sort of proper battle practice, without any sort of application onto a battlefield somewhere out on the lands of Fodlan. 

The grip on his dagger’s handle goes white, glinting metal raised high above his head, already moving to strike where Claude thinks the neck would be. But when he swipes his arm down, his blade does not meet skin, there is no scream of pain, there is no blood. 

His blade meets nothing. There is no one there. 

The wind billows from the windows, pushing the rest of the silk outwards in one heavy gust.

—   


Perhaps it is the lack of sleep. Claude knows he never works his best when he misses out on a nap or two. He wonders how he managed to go through five entire years of war missing out on countless hours of sleep, and it shows in the way he drags his limbs, the way his eyes scream in defiance when he opens them in the morning, sunshine streaming in through his windows. The fatigue layers thick on his bones when he gets ready, when he does each golden-plated button one-by-one. 

On days he has to be Claude von Riegan, he easily paints on a smile for all to see. He is the face of hope, of sunshine, it does not do well to disappoint everyone by failing to meet that expectation. He pushes himself to shake every hand, to return every joke—all while his mind works at maximum capacity to  _ think _ .  _ What would this Lady like me to hear? Would I be stepping on toes if I said this? What if I undermine the peace?  _

_ What if I mess this up? _

Claude works hard at his job. He knows he’s extraordinarily good at it. He works tirelessly to build his dream piece by piece, to snatch every key from key figures when they least expect it. There is no one else but him who could come close to finishing what he started—he knows that extremely well. Because of that, he works day and night, the face everyone knows as Claude von Riegan dazzling everyone in the vicinity with his signature golden charm and glamour. 

Even when he just wants to be Khalid. 

Even when he just wants to go home. 

He must work, or the future will crumble to dust and shattered glass before his very eyes.

— 

In the days leading up to the first annual parade commemorating the war’s end, Claude realises that something is wrong. 

While the non-attack on him the other night could be chalked up to a simple rare miscalculation, it doesn't mean that rebels aren't lurking around where they cannot see. He is due to make a flight to Fhirdiad soon to meet up with Dimitri as the Almyran ambassador and a keystone in the Kingdom's victory, but a nagging bite has begun to show itself in the darkest corners of his mind. 

He does not doubt the Kingdom's emphasis on safety. From Claude's short days in Garreg Mach, the books on Faerghan protocol stacked high above his head on the wooden surfaces in his room tell him that previous administrations were expected to have their security measures surround their king. It did not come as a surprise to Claude then—judging from how  _ anal _ some of the Blue Lions could be, their pride lay on the shoulders of whoever wore the Kingdom's crest on their back, like a royal blue flag that followed them whenever they went. The silent proclamation of the Lion that sat on the Kingdom's tall silver thone, benevolent or not, for their hand would lead the Kingdom to prosperity.

Yeah, no. Claude is pretty proud that Dimitri didn't care for utter bullshit. 

Judging from the plans that had been delivered to him weeks back, there would be guards stationed around where the villagers and parade-goers would be, with emphasis on areas in the city prone to crime. The plans had Dimitri written all over the parchment, and Claude felt like he was listening to Dimitri himself when he first read the plans, the deep, clipped timbre insisting on the people's safety before his own—surely at the expense of the poor staff that had attempted to dissuade his reckless orders.

But Claude could see blind spots where Dimitri didn't. The alleyways in the deepest parts of Fhirdiad are perfect for any potential ambush on large groups of people. The number of casualties would absolutely soar, potentially leaving Fhirdiad in a state of emergency and the threat of civil war looming over their heads. 

And what would become of that then? 

Chaos is the last thing Faerghus needs. The people have only  _ just _ begun to see hope again—with the coming of the new king and his coronation, Claude's visits to his (arguably) second home has never been more sweet, filled with smiling children and songs on the street as he passes by taverns and marketplaces. He listens to the old ladies chatter like birdsong, and their topics are so  _ mundane _ it gives Claude a peace of mind that life is beginning to look up for the northern people of Fodlan.

Fatalities could potentially end that all in a snap. A sudden attack would cut the peace like a sharpened blade drawing blood. Would they recover as well as they did after the war? He doesn't know. Claude hopes that it'll never come to that again, day after day of waiting to end violent fighting that plagues the land.

He knows they cannot afford to go through more fighting when they're rebuilding. He knows damn well—Dimitri told him himself.

As he stares down at the map in his hands, he finally notices how white his knuckles are, how tight his grip has gone—where the paper crumples deeply under his fingers. He immediately relaxes his land to feel relief flooding his nerves, but he does not stop to wait. He cannot. He must act before it's too late. 

Picking up a quill from his side, Claude gets to work, beginning to scratch ink lines into the parchment in thick and heavy red. He lines the grid with red, where he thinks the enemy would be. He feels like he's planning for war again, and for a moment, he recalls the nights he's spent slaving away at his mahogany desk tucked into the stone wall at Garreg Mach, drawing up contingency after contingency to ensure their highest chance of victory.

No one will die under his command again. 

He will protect the home he's earned.

—

Claude, in every sense of the word, is a survivor.

He’s faced all sorts of threats—poison, drowning, stabbing, burning; you name it, he’s got it. At some point, it’s become business-as-usual for Claude, his body adapting to avoid death’s insistent chase after him, a game of hide-and-seek with the devil that fills him with dread and thrill at the same time. 

At some point, avoidance comes as easy as fresh air. 

As long as he keeps preparing, keeps getting ready, there will be nothing that he cannot face. His intellect wields his body like a weapon, arms and fingers drawn tight like a bow. It’s served him well in the many years of his life, for as long as he could remember. There is not a single memory he has of Almyra, of his childhood, that gives him a sense of tranquility and still. 

He does not know what that feels like. 

— 

“Claude,” Dimitri’s first words to him are not warm, they are  _ concerned _ . The way Dimitri looks at him is not the look he relishes in, of one that promises him unconditional love and acceptance, but rather a look that has ‘what?’ written all over his face. “When was the last time you slept?”

“Last night.” It is not a lie. 

Dimitri is dressed like a King, like usual. He is bathed in silver and diamond, glistening rain hanging off his body in ways that makes him look like an Ice spirit, azure gaze staring straight into Claude’s summery-warm soul and cooling him off. 

In normal circumstances, Claude would take his sweet time to watch his King, his beautiful Dimitri in all his glory. If given the permission, Claude would undoubtedly pull his King into a room all to themselves, pulling him apart piece by piece and putting him together again as they melt into one whole—no sign of where either of them starts and ends. But he cannot bring himself to do that today, even if they are both alone—such a rare treat that both of them never miss out on.

Until today.

“Darling, you’re trembling, are you sure you’re—”

He does not do it on purpose. Claude would never  _ ever _ dream of doing so, but he ignores Dimitri as he walks straight to the offices, the weight of folded parchment in his pocket as heavy as stone. The looming threat hangs heavy in his thoughts, clouding every motor skill he’s ever developed and working on auto-pilot. His feet drag him closer and closer to Dimitri’s office, his hands clenching and relaxing at his sides while the agitation grows uncomfortably larger—a dark shadow blanketing his thoughts. There is  _ so much _ that could go wrong today, how could anyone ignore that? He didn’t have time to fight in another war, he didn’t have enough power back home to lend forces should Fodlan need it, he didn’t— 

A warm hand reaches out and grabs his elbow, pulling him back and halting him in his steps before he can go any further. 

“What—” Claude begins. 

“ _ Claude _ . Come with me.” 

Dimitri does not wait for Claude’s input, uncharacteristic of the man whose benevolence gave name to his crown. As much as he’d  _ love _ to spend some time with his beloved, Claude does not have time to waste. The fear that rooted itself in his heart turns black—ugly and venomous—and the scalding sting of irritation grows spikes. He  _ feels _ prickly, a sudden build up of angry energy spilling over like a waterfall. 

“Dimitri, let go of me.”   
  
“No. We are taking a break before the parade.” 

“ _ Dimitri _ —”    
  
“I will not entertain any ifs, or buts—”

“I SAID,  _ LET GO! _ ”   


It happens so quickly that Claude doesn’t realise what happened until seconds later. Dimitri stumbles back—moreso out of shock than Claude’s actual strength—after the smaller man pushes him away, leaving a huge gap between them. The King’s expression is shocked, his eyes widen, and yet…  _ and yet… _

Dimitri looks at Claude with an expression he’s  _ extremely  _ familiar with. 

The man’s face is twisted into disappointment. His lips are pulled downwards, brows curled into a frown that makes him look even more upset than Dimitri probably is—but the damage has been done. Claude’s never wanted Dimitri to look at him like that. He’s never wanted to breach the expectation of the perfect king,  _ Claude von Riegan _ and his confident self.

Everything comes crashing to the ground. 

“I’m sorry,  _ fuck _ , I’m—”

His head spins. Everything spins so fast and wildly out of control, leaving Claude without a grasp on reality. He runs his hands through his tousled hair, fingers curling down painfully into his scalp. The force of which he yanks at his hair sends pain through his head—but it's the only thing that’s keeping him from spiralling into nothingness, into the void that gapes in his lonely, lonely heart. 

This is where it all ends. It’s where Dimitri stops looking at him like an equal. It’s the beginning of another cycle of hate. He almost feels like  _ puking _ —everything he’s worked on thus far  _ gone _ in the span of seconds, all because he couldn’t  _ control  _ himself, something he should have perfect mastery over in the first place. 

His body doesn’t respond to his whims. He can’t move, no matter what he tries. His body tremors with fear, nothing he’s  _ ever  _ experienced before. It’s like the cumulation of several years worth of pent up fear pouring over the edge of an overfilled bowl. He thinks he’s going to die from how horrible he feels—heart pounding wildly, his stomach flopping and curling  _ so _ uncomfortably like he’s freefalling from the sky with no wyvern in sight to catch him. 

It sucks. He’s in pain. He should have known better. He wants to go home,  _ he wants to go home—  _

“Claude.” 

Strong hands reach out and hold onto his shoulders firmly. The grip is gentle, yet sturdy. Claude focuses his thoughts on the touch, pulling him back down closer to earth. 

“Claude. Beloved,  _ breathe _ . Here, breathe along with me. Breathe in… Out. That’s right. In—… and out…” 

He follows the warm voice, inhaling as much air as he possibly can, his lungs filling up like a balloon to its fullest capacity; then breathing out slowly. A few cycles bring him much, much closer back down to the ground, but he still feels horrible. He feels shitty, like he wants to hole into a ground and  _ die _ …

“Khalid, my love. It’s okay, I am here. Please…” 

Dimitri’s voice murmurs so gently it’s almost fragile. It’s achingly sweet, the way he whispers such sweet, assuring words. 

“I’m sorry,” Claude begins again, disappointment welling up in his heart in place of uncontrollable fear and uncertainty. “I’m sorry,  _ I’m sorry _ , I don’t want any of this to go. I don’t think I can take losing another home.”

Dimitri’s strong arms wrap around Claude’s frame, pulling him into a hug that anchors him to reality. He is a man made of love, made of kindness and all the goodness that Claude  _ isn’t _ , but it leaves Claude wanting more. The quenching of a hunger for touch that he didn’t think he had, the love that Dimitri gave without a second thought—it’s everything to Claude, and Goddess, if he lost him…

He didn’t want to think of that right now. 

“Claude,  _ Khalid _ , my love…” Dimitri whispers as he begins to rock them side to side very gently, rhythmic movement lulling Claude into a state of calm. “You won’t lose me. I promise this to you.”

“The parade, what if something bad happens? We don’t know if there are rebels out there yet, we don’t know if people will get  _ hurt _ because of us, because of  _ me _ —” 

“Nothing will happen. I have taken steps to ensure that.”

“Dimitri, we can’t be sure that another war won’t break out—”

“Claude, listen to me.” the King says firmly, silencing the voices that drive and perpetuate ghosts in Claude’s head, even for just a moment. “The war is  _ over _ . We are safe,  _ you _ are safe. I won’t let harm come to you, so please. It is okay to stop fighting now.” 

_ It is okay. _

The tears nearly well up in Claude’s eyes. There is so much uncertainty,  _ so much  _ that he does not know, cannot control. For all he knew, he could lose everything in an instant, he would go back to being hated, despised. He doesn’t think he can take another few years of horrible, horrible anger towards him; being targeted for his skin colour, his blood, for who he is. The fear does not control him, but it paralyzes him like a deer caught in lights. He does not know where to run, he does not know where to hide, and yet—surrender seems like the only way he can survive. 

To adapt without seeing. To act without knowing. Could he do it? 

“I will keep you safe by my side. Please, rely on me as I have on you too, Claude.” Dimitri quietly asks with his lips pressed against brown, wavy locks. 

Claude does not fear any less. The blank pages that lay before their lands overwhelms him with trepidation. There has never been once that Claude’s been unprepared, and it scares him to no end. 

But the way Dimitri promises sanctuary in his silent words and loud actions makes Claude want to give in. Embrace his own demons, of ghosts that he did not know he had himself. 

It might just be okay. 

The world continues to turn with them. 

**Author's Note:**

> remember that you are loved, and you are so, so valid. 
> 
> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/blifuys/status/1242849315963338753?s=20)


End file.
